


Put On Your Warpaint

by secretfeanorian



Series: made of starlight [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, I don't really want to list them all, quite the collection of Dunedain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretfeanorian/pseuds/secretfeanorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end is coming swiftly now, and Rawlind can't remember the last time she slept well. But there is always something more to be done and maybe she just doesn't know when to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put On Your Warpaint

**Author's Note:**

> So many different Rangers! It was a bit overwhelming while writing (and I didn't even include all the Rangers you can encounter while doing this series of quests, although I think I mentioned most of them at least once).
> 
> Ebony is the lore-master war steed pet you get down...yellow line, I think.

_I’m standing on the mouth of hell and it’s gonna swallow me whole and it will choke on me.  
_

* * *

“Rawlind!” Aragorn calls from across the camp and the lore-master glances in the direction his voice had come from. He is walking towards her, flanked by the twin sons of Elrond as he had been since Rawlind has arrived at the camp prior to the retaking of Pelargir. They had only been parted from their foster brother in the taking of the city itself.  
  
She stands to greet her close friend and he grasps her shoulder in greeting as soon as he is near enough to. “I apologize for leaving while we were speaking-” He starts, but Rawlind waves him off, laughing softly. Her heart has felt lighter the past few days for the reunion, however short their parting may have been.  
  
“I understand you have important things to do, and no longer have time for the commoner such as I,” She jokes.  
  
Aragorn chuckles briefly, but the mirth soon leaves his face, “You know that is not true, my friend.” He says seriously and Rawlind’s face becomes serious in turn.  
  
“I know that, Aragorn.” She says solemnly, “I was only jesting,”  
  
They fall silent and from behind Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir say nothing. “We still have our parts to play,” Aragorn says softly after this pause, “and I deem it important that we play them well.”  
  
Rawlind breathes a curt sigh of agreement. “The pieces are now moving swiftly and we must race to keep up,” She mumbles.  
  
Aragorn looks around the camp and beyond to Pelargir and her harbor. “I wish to sail up the river on the deck of the Corsair ships, and come by that route to the aid of Minas Tirith,” He announces and Rawlind nods, seeing no better option, and it is hardly a bad one. “It is my hope that we will arrive in time and with such surprise that we can strike a blow to the fighting will of those who threaten the city.”  
  
“That is my hope as well,” The lore-master replies and Aragorn smiles slightly.  
  
“We do not have much time to prepare, but there are a number of tasks I have given our friends to perform in the city that will help us set forth as quickly as possible.” Rawlind shifts, ready to move and act on Aragorn’s command. “Help them with these tasks, if you would, for every moment we hesitate is a moment the Enemy would relish.”  
  
Rawlind resists the urge to make a face, for she can clearly see the logic in Aragorn’s request. He grasps her shoulder again, and then leaves to speak with someone else. From behind her, Daefaroth nickers and she reaches over to rub the war steed’s head affectionately. The Rohirrim-bred mare paws at the ground agitatedly, eager to be off and about once more. “Sorry, Dae,” She mutters, “You’ll have to wait a bit longer.” The horse huffs, but calms herself and Rawlind motions for Epitaph to follow her. The lynx stands and stretches before trailing after the lore-master without her usual hiss of complaint. She can sense the feeling of urgency hanging over the camp and over Rawlind herself.  
  
Rawlind first sees Daervunn and heads over to him. He sees her coming from a fair distance away and waves. “It is good to see you again, Rawlind,” He says. His voice is almost light, but there is no mistaking the unease in his tone.  
  
“It is good to see you as well, Daervunn,” She says and then, pleasantries and greetings concluded, she continues by saying, “Aragorn requested I help where I can…”  
  
“Ah,” Daervunn says and then sighs, “Aragorn hopes to sail up the Anduin on the decks of the Corsair ships, but we are not water-men, and if we are to do this we will need every advantage.” Rawlind hums in agreement and Epitaph wraps herself around Rawlind’s legs. The two friends chuckle, but the solemn air that seems to hang over the camp of the Grey Host like a dark cloud remains and the amusement soon fades. “To that end, I sent Amlan into the city to look for maps of the river that might aid us in this endeavor.”  
  
Rawlind nods, “Help Amlan look for maps,” She mutters under her breath, already forming a mental list, and a tiny smile returns to Daervunn’s face.  
  
“I believe Amlan was going to begin his search in the Market Ward.”  
  
Rawlind adds that location to her list, and then continues moving through the camp, intending to ‘collect’ a few more tasks before entering the city.  
  
She next espies Langlas standing a short distance away and walks over toward him. She and the Ranger from Ered Luin aren’t as well acquainted as she might wish, but he smiles when he sees her nonetheless. “Did you fight in the battle, Rawlind?” He asks by way of greeting and she raises an eyebrow sarcastically. “I was stricken with a great fear as the shades of the Dead joined the battle, and I confess to you that I felt a great urge to run from them, as the Corsairs did.”  
  
Rawlind feels a fell chill climb up her spine at the memory of the battle of Pelargir and she shivers once, involuntarily. She understands fully his meaning. Only loyalty to Aragorn and love for her friends had kept her steady as the vanguard of the Dead army charged straight towards her, even with the knowledge that they were driving the Corsairs straight into the prepared trap.  
  
“And yet,” Langlas continues, “Before my heart betrayed me and I succumbed to the terror, I felt a hand upon my arm, and I was reassured.” He pauses, then asks, “Do you know who it was?” Even though Rawlind knows it was a rhetorical question, she still wordlessly shakes her head. “It was Celairant, the young Ranger I took under my wing in Ered Luin.” Rawlind’s brow furrows, but she cannot recall the face that goes with the name. “He is not as young as he was, and this journey has put some steel in him. It was an honor to stand with Aragorn and the presence of Celairant was a comfort. I am proud to call him brother.”  
  
Langlas draws off and Rawlind cannot speak for him, but her own mind turns to all those others who he had called brother who no longer walk among the living. After a few minutes, Langlas shakes his head and returns to business. “I overheard Aragorn telling you to help where you could, and – if you are not too busy – I have a request for you.” Rawlind gestures for him to continue when he looks over at her, and he does, “When the Corsairs fled, many of them cast their weapons to the ground. Mandan went ahead to gather up the fallen blades. Find him at the north-west entrance to Pelargir and help him with this task, for there are many weapons to be recovered.”  
  
“Mandan at north-west entrance,” Rawlind mumbles softly, and then nods in acknowledgement. She then spots Calenglad a short distance away and mutters a farewell to Langlas.  
  
Calenglad looks up at the sound of her approach and grins when he sees Rawlind. “I like this land, Rawlind,” He says cheerfully, and his cheer seems sincere, but Rawlind can’t shake off the memory of his broken voice in her dream on the shores of Lake Evendim. “It reminds me of the twilit wilds, far away in the North, where my heart remains.” Rawlind mentally shakes herself from her dark thoughts and focuses on Calenglad as he stands before her. “The wooded slopes encircling Lake Nenuial must be slowly shaking off the grip of winter, and in a few weeks the leaves of their trees may begin to fight through the remaining chill. No Winter lasts forever, and the coming of Spring will banish even the coldest of memories. Will this war be any different?” Calenglad stands silently for a short while, musing on the question.  
  
Rawlind is musing herself, but on something else entirely. The Calenglad in her dream had something so despondent about him, compared to this hopeful man…perhaps it had truly only been a dream…Still, she can’t chase it from her mind.  
  
Eventually, Calenglad smiles, and gives Rawlind a conspiratorial wink. “Radanir told me you agreed to treat him to a meal and drinks at a tavern of your choosing, once this is all over. If you have no objection, I would like to join the two of you there.”  
  
Rawlind laughs suddenly. She’d entirely forgotten about that promise, although not in a spiteful way. She sticks her tongue out at him, but the smiles doesn’t leave her face. “If I’m still alive at the end of this, I would gladly buy drinks for every surviving member of the company,” She thinks, but the thought is just dark enough that she doesn’t give voice to it. The days are dark enough without her adding to them.  
  
Calenglad shakes his head, and Rawlind once again shakes off her thoughts and guiltily realizes she’d once again been ignoring him. “But there is still much hardship ahead of us, and with all my musings I forgot to tell you something! Halbarad wanted me to send you to him. He has returned to Pelargir already. If you leave now you should find him just inside the north-west entrance to the city.”  
  
Rawlind nods, and, having been urged to hurry, turns to make for the city, but before she can return to where Daefaroth is waiting, she sees Lothrandir and instinctively heads to him. He appears to hear her approach, but does not look up and Rawlind feels her heart drop a little. Lothrandir smiles when he finally does look up at her, but the frustration is clear in his eyes.  
  
“I do not know what I am doing, Rawlind,” He admits with a sigh. He sounds out of breath and Rawlind tries not to left her worry show on her face. She appears to have succeeded, as Lothrandir does not become irritated with her. “I could do little more than stay atop the horse Dagoras provided for me on the ride from Rohan.” Rawlind wants to say something, but doesn’t know what to say without offending him, so she says nothing. “I am still weak from my stay within Saruman’s dungeons, and even lifting a sword leaves me fatigued. I am exhausted and frustrated.”  
  
If Lothrandir is expecting pity to enter Rawlind’s eyes, he is perhaps pleasantly disappointed as veiled hate is the only thing that enters them. Lothrandir lets out an angry huff. “I volunteered to help load the ships with supplies, expecting to struggle through and beyond the unfair limitations of my strength, but Radanir took my place and sent me back here. My face was red with shame, but I must admit he was right. I need to rest and recover my strength. Curse the traitor-Wizard!” He spits and Rawlind sighs. Lothrandir bites his lip and looks at her. “I am sorry to burden you with my troubles, Rawlind.” He says and Rawlind reaches over and pulls him into a one-armed hug, unable to resist the urge to do so. He tenses, but doesn’t push her away.  
  
When she does pull away, she clears her throat nervously. “It is never a burden, Loth,” She says, “You are important to me and I am always happy to help, whatever that might entail.”  
  
Lothrandir blinks, then smiles faintly. “Find Radanir, then, and help him carry my share of the supplies onto the Corsair flagship. You will find him in the West-garth, by one of the bridges that lead to the Court of the Ship-kings.”  
  
Rawlind smiles again and then turns to go find Daefaroth. It’s only a short ride to Pelargir and as soon as she enters the north-west entrance, she sees two men dressed in familiar armor. The first is Mandan, and she suspects the second is Halbarad. She goes to speak to Mandan first.  
  
There are a few injured townspeople surrounding him and he looks up, startled, when she calls his name. “Langlas sent me to check on you,” Rawlind says.  
  
“Oh! Langlas sent you to check on me? That was quite unnecessary, Rawlind,” Rawlind raises an eyebrow and Mandan scowls. “Well, perhaps it was a little necessary. You see, I began to gather some of the weapons the Corsairs cast aside, but it was slow work and I decided my own skills might be better used elsewhere.” Rawlind’s eyebrow climbs higher. “You know of my talent for fashioning and applying salves, of course,” He says defensively, and Rawlind tries to prevent her eyebrow from raising even higher still. She doesn’t think she succeeds. “There are many wounded folk who could use such treatment, and I will see to them immediately.” Rawlind hums, and Mandan huffs. “Anyway, Celairant was gathering up the weapons already. You are welcome to go down to the docks and help him with that task, if you like.”  
  
Rawlind suddenly has to force back a laugh and she walks over to where Halbarad is standing without responding. He is staring up at the statue of Thorongil with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Halbarad?” She calls and he shakes his head, turning to face her.  
  
They speak briefly, but he appears distracted and when questioned, he sighs. “The appearance of the Dead men may weigh heavily upon some others of our company. Golodir in particular seemed distraught by the passage under the mountain. If you have time, find Corunir somewhere to the south of here, and see if he knows where Golodir can be found. The two of them are rarely apart.”  
  
Mentally, Rawlind sighs as she adds another item to the checklist of things that need to be done, although she doesn’t begrudge anyone for it. Her back just aches and she feels as if she has not slept in months, but instead of refusing, she nods and moves on her way into the city in search of Radanir.  
  
It takes her only a few minutes to find him as he is exactly where Lothrandir had said he’d been earlier. He smiles gleefully when he sees her approaching. “Looks like Techeron owes me some coins, Rawlind,” He says, his voice light and brimming with laughter. “We had a friendly wager concerning what would happen first: Lothrandir returning to try and carry these crates, or you showing up to carry them in his stead.” Rawlind pushes away a blush, but Radanir doesn’t seem to notice. “I never doubted you for a moment, and now you’ve won me some coins. I thank you for being so honorable. And predictable!”  
  
This time, Rawlind is unable to disguise her blush and Radanir laughs. Then he gestures at some of the crates sitting next to him. “These need to go to the Corsair flagship, for that’s the one that has the most room. Techeron is waiting for these supplies on the flagship moored at the large southern dock of the Market Ward. You can’t miss it: it’s the big one.”  
  
Rawlind looks at the small collection of crates Radanir’s gesture had encompassed and sighs internally. Her back already aches and she feels her arms, and indeed her entire body, beginning to follow suit. She bends down and lifts two of the four crates, grunting as she does. As she hurries through the streets of Pelargir, she reflects on the fact that once again, she’s hauling crates around. Despite her aching body – or perhaps because of it – she decides to do it as quickly as she can and get it over with.  
  
As Rawlind hurries toward the flagship, she spots Amlan poking through some other crates and remembers her promise to check in on him. “Amlan!” She calls, pausing, and he looks over at her. “Daervunn asked me to check up with you,” She offers, shifting her position to better support the heavy crates in her arms.  
  
Amlan smiles at her briefly, then mutters tiredly, “I have found nothing yet. If I never see another crate, it will be far too soon for me.” Rawlind laughs in complete agreement and his eyes go to the small stack of crates she is carrying. “Should you find yourself to the north-east of here before I do, I have not checked the crates there yet. I do not think any there will have river-maps in them, but we must search them anyway, just to be sure.  
  
Rawlind moves to continue on her way to Techeron after nodding her consent to Amlan. Epitaph still trails after her, but the lynx is dragging her paws and she seems just as tired as her mistress. Pausing, she looks down at the cat, then back the way she’d come. Coming to a decision, she sets down the crates and rubs Epitaph’s head. “Go wait by Daefaroth, Epi.” She whispers. The cat blinks, then turns and pads back toward the north-west entrance. She watches her go, then bends down to pick the crates back up and continues on her way.  
  
Rawlind passes Celairant gathering swords and mentally marks his position down for later. She passes Halros, carrying what looks like foodstuffs. She passes a collection of other Rangers, all busy and moving about. When she reaches the flagship, Techeron reluctantly thanks her for the supplies, though it has lost him a wager. On her way back to Radanir, she first stops to gather a few dozen swords and drops them in a barrel by Celairant. He sends her a grateful smile and then she moves to search the area Amlan had described for maps of the Anduin.  
  
The first half-dozen crates she searches do not contain any such maps; mostly rats in fact; but the seventh one contains some folded pieces of parchment that reveal themselves to be maps of the Anduin’s course. She tucks them under her arm and returns to Amlan. He looks up and a half frown creases his face when he sees she has been successful. “You found some maps of the Anduin?” He asks and she nods, “I cannot believe it!” He mutters, a frustrated hint in the statement, “It is always the last place you check, or the first place you never checked, is it not?”  
  
“It does seem that way sometimes,” Rawlind replies.  
  
Amlan takes one of the maps from her and peers at it for a moment. “Well, I see Pelargir here, and Osgiliath up here, which means that these four black lines must be the Anduin…” He declares, “But…what do these marks in the river’s course mean? I cannot ascertain anything useful from these maps, Rawlind.” He says, with a note of exhaustion coloring his voice. “I think you should bring them to Orthonn.”  
  
Rawlind nods, blinking her eyes rapidly in an attempt to force them to stay open. “And where might I find him, do you know?”  
  
Amlan’s brow furrows as he thinks. “I think you will find him to the south-east,” He gestures in the general direction he means, “Somewhere in the Court of the Ship-kings.” She nods and takes the map he’d been looking at from him, moving in the direction he’d indicated.  
  
Rawlind finds Orthonn standing next to a fountain in the Court and he looks over at her. “Yes?” He asks, “What can I help you with, my friend?” He sees the parchment in her hands and asks, “What do you have there?” Rawlind hands him the maps and with each one he looks at, his smile grows. “What a fine gift, Rawlind! I did not think you know of my interest in cartography!”  
  
Embarrassed suddenly, Rawlind shakes her head. “I did not now until a few minutes ago. I was helping Amlan look for maps to make the trip upriver easier and he said you would be able to read them.”  
  
“Oh.” Orthonn says. He sounds almost a little disappointed. “This gift has a more practical purpose, then. I will of course study these maps of the river closely and give my findings to Aragorn, so we may travel the Anduin as safely and quickly as we can!"  
  
The Ranger Faeron, standing nearby, beckons Rawlind toward him. Before she leaves Orthonn to his studying, she grasps his shoulder and says quietly, “When this is all over, remind me, and you can look through my collection of maps. I have quite a few from my travels.” Orthonn smiles at her and she then moves to speak with Faeron.  
  
“If I may; I overheard your conversation with Orthonn, and have a suggestion of my own, and I hope you will bring it to Daervunn, for I know he has the ear of Aragorn.” Rawlind shifts position and reaches to pick at a scab on her face. As she does, her hand brushes against the still unfamiliar scars from Isengard that now mar her face. She jerks her hand down and focuses on Faeron. “I urge that he not fly the standard of the king when we sail up the Anduin. I have trained many light-fingered folk in the art of burglary, and I know the value of surprise. Sometimes it can make all the difference. If he keeps secret the fact of our departure and the manner of our travel, any foe we face may be put off its guard upon our arrival.” Rawlind nods in wholehearted agreement. “Perhaps it has already been discussed, but my heart tells me there is value in this and I must say it. Please give Daervunn my message, Rawlind.”  
  
“I will,” She promises, and he nods. She heads back to Radanir and picks up another crate. Then, considering and glancing at the fourth and fifth crates, she stacks the three precariously atop each other and sets off at a slower pace than before.  
  
When she once again reaches the flagship, Techeron takes the crates from her and thanks her again. Before she can head off in search of Corunir, however, he stops her. “Hold a moment, Rawlind,” She stops and tilts her head, listening. “Did you know that Radanir and I had a bit of a friendly wager?” Rawlind nods, “It was just to amuse us during a bit of tedium and I do not want you to take it too greatly to heart.”  
  
Rawlind assures Techeron that of course she hadn’t, but he presses on, seemingly needing to get out what he is saying.  
  
“You see, I wagered that Lothrandir would return to the city and finish the task of loading the ship, instead of you, but I did not mean to disparage your strength or ability. All know of your great deeds and the help you have provided to us on the journey.” Rawlind fights back a sigh, but does not again insist that she had taken no offense. “No, I based my wager on how hardy Lothrandir always appears. He chose to live in distant Forochel, after all!”  
  
_Forochel is a harsh land, even for those who know it well_ , Rawlind reflects fondly, her mind wandering for a moment.  
  
“Such inhospitable places breed stalwart men, and Lothrandir was strong to start! He is the toughest Ranger I have ever met, and…well…perhaps that is the reason for my wager, Rawlind.” Techeron looks down at his feet, “I simply could not believe that Lothrandir’s strength could be taken from him, but Saruman has turned him into a shell of his former self. Such treatment in the dungeons of the Wizard would kill a lesser man, I have no doubt, but it pains me to see Lothrandir so weak, so tired. I think I wagered against you with the hope that it was not so.” Rawlind’s face darkens at the thought, and Techeron sighs, “I am sorry for taking up so much of your time. I wanted you to know."  
  
Faintly, Rawlind murmurs, “It is fine; I understand” before turning to go in search of Corunir. As she walks, she muses on the situation she and her friends have found themselves in. The Rangers of the Grey Company have helped deliver the port-city from danger, but their journey is not yet ended. Some of the Rangers are troubled by the things they have seen, and tensions run high among Aragorn’s folk.  
  
Before she can travel further down that path of thought, she spots Corunir on the other side of the courtyard. She heads over, but before she can even open her mouth, Corunir cuts her off curtly. “I am not in the mood to talk, Rawlind,” He half snaps and Rawlind retreats back half a pace. “This has been a trying experience for all of us. I hope you do not mind.” Rawlind blinks, sighs, and then turns to go. As she does, Corunir holds up his hand. “I am sorry, Rawlind,” He calls her back, “I am fine. With what can I help you?”  
  
“I’m looking for Golodir and I thought you might know where I might find him.”  
  
Corunir’s face darkens slightly. “Golodir is the cause of my ill temperament, and I have no desire to speak with him any further,” He grumbles, “Do you remember the fell mood that seized him in Angmar, before the Grey Company assembled?” Rawlind nods, the memory having faded somewhat, but remaining fresh enough. “I thought he had left it behind,” So had Rawlind. “Indeed, it seemed that the journey was doing him some good, but it returned again in Tûr Morva, only to be overcome by the gentle laughter of the Dunlending girl, Wanda.” Corunir sighs deeply and to Rawlind, he suddenly looks exhausted, “But like the rising and falling brimstone pools of Malenhad, his ill mood has returned after a short time at low ebb, and now he shouts at his own dear friends.” Corunir draws in a deep breath, then lets it out, “If you seek him out, know that I left him standing on a dock to the south, looking out at the water. I will not be held responsible if he treats you unkindly, for it seems he does not know his friends.”  
  
Rawlind nods. From across the courtyard, a wolf pads into view and stops to look around. She sighs and then whistles, “Ebony!” She calls and his head jerks toward her. He catches sight of her and then lopes to her side. Rawlind sighs and then takes a handful of the wolf’s scruff and makes her way past piles of rubble left from the Corsair incursion and toward the docks.  
  
The docks are crowded and busy, with Rangers and townspeople alike scurrying about and it takes the lore-master several long minutes to find Golodir. When she does, he is standing on a dock staring out at the water, likely in the same position he’d been in when Corunir had left.  
  
Golodir drops his hand from his brow and looks over at Rawlind. “Yes? What do you want?” He snaps. “Are you here to chastise me for treating Corunir unkindly? He has been a shore thorn for these past few days, constantly asking questions about my well-being. He should have expected a rebuke!” There is an angry fire in Goldor’s eyes, an unfamiliar, smoldering rage and Rawlind’s hand in Ebony’s fur tightens nervously.  
  
“I know why, Rawlind!” He spits, “Around matters of the Dead, they treat me with delicate gloves. They look at me and they see my daughter, Lorniel. My grief was strong and will never truly pass, but this treatment fills me with such anger I would strike them all down: Corunir, Halbarad, even my own chief, Aragorn!”  
  
Ebony growls low in his throat and Golodir falls silent for several minutes. When he speaks again, his voice is little more than a whisper, and there are tears in his eyes. “I…I do not know from where this anger comes, Rawlind. It feels as if I hear voices of the past, unflagging and unrelenting, calling my name, taunting me…”  
  
Rawlind cannot chase the concern from her eyes, but thankfully, Golodir does not start yelling at her again. Instead, he sighs. “I will master these voices. I have been troubled by these feelings ever since we began this journey, and I have managed to stifle them. It has become more difficult of late, perhaps because of the unnatural skies…the evil presence of the Dead men…” Golodir manages a small smile, but it doesn’t look especially convincing. “Do not worry about me, my friend. I will apologize to Corunir, and my outburst will remain between us, I hope?"  
  
Rawlind sighs, not convinced of the wisdom of that course, but ultimately too tired to protest. She nods and heads back up the steps to the north-west entrance, Ebony trailing behind with an almost worried expression gracing his muzzle. On her way, she spots Mandan and heads over to speak with him.  
  
Rawlind hears something about healing and telling Langlas that his supplies will be low and she nods. Epitaph is curled up, asleep, in a pile of hay, and she picks her up and puts her among the saddlebags on Daefaroth in the lynx’s designated travel spot. Epitaph looks blearily at her, then puts her head back down and stubbornly close her eyes, ignoring Rawlind. The lore-master chuckles softly, then swings up into the saddle. Ebony nudges her feet and she reaches down to scratch his head before lightly kicking Daefaroth’s sides.  
  
The ride back to the camp is short and Rawlind doesn’t remember a second of it. She does, however, remember dismounting and upon seeing Langlas, heads over to speak with him. “How did you find the task, Rawlind?” He asks when she comes within earshot. “I hope it was not too onerous for you.”  
  
“It was fine,” Rawlind answers, forcing back a yawn. “Mand-” The yawn insistently returns and, conceding defeat, she lets it out before continuing. “Mandan wanted me to tell you that he would be on short rations for the rest of the journey, since he has been…” She draws off, searching for the right phase, but Langlas clearly already knows what she means because he sighs.  
  
“I sent Mandan with Celairant in hopes that my young friend would be able to keep Mandan in line, but it seems he is still trying to peddle those salves and poultices of his.” He shakes his head, but chuckles softly. “Thank you for completing his tasks for him, my friend.”  
  
Rawlind smiles, then spots Calenglad. “It was no trouble,” She says, by way of farewell, and heads over to speak with Calenglad.  
  
He sees her coming, and asks, “Did you find Halbarad? Were you able to help him with whatever it was he needed?”  
  
Instead of answering, Rawlind asks Calenglad how he feels about the mood of the Grey Company.  
  
Calenglad pauses and thinks for a moment before answering. “I think we are doing fine, for the most part.” He says, “We have been through a great deal already, and there is more hardship ahead, but if we stay true to each other, there is nothing we need fear. We have lost friends along the way, but our memories of them give us the strength to go on. If I close my eyes I can still hear their voices and they urge me to stand with Aragorn and honor my pledge. And one day, you will buy Radanir and Daervunn and I a meal and drinks and we will all toast the successful journey of the Grey Company.”  
  
Rawlind nods distractedly, then pauses. “Wait a minute…” She narrows her eyes at Calenglad and he smiles innocently.  
  
“Oh yes, I told Daervunn about our agreement once this is all done. I did not think you would mind.”  
  
Rawlind glares at Calenglad, but it is a half-hearted attempt at best, and he does not seem to take the dirty glance seriously. She sighs. “Where is Daervunn, anyway?” She asks, remembering Faeron’s words. “I have a message for him.”  
  
“I think I saw him speaking with Aragorn earlier,” Rawlind nods and meanders toward the center of the camp where she figures Aragorn is most likely to be. Before she can reach the center, however, she spots Daervunn coming toward her and moves to intercept him.  
  
“I found some maps of the Anduin and Orthonn is looking over them. He said he’d give any information he finds straight to Aragorn,” She reports, and Daervunn nods gratefully, “Also, Faeron was concerned about Aragorn flying the standard of the king as the ships sail upriver and wanted me to say something to you.”  
  
Daervunn nods again, this time in agreement. “I share Faeron’s concerns, and spoke to Aragorn about that very matter while you were in the city.”  
  
“Ah,” Rawlind mutters, and he smiles briefly before continuing.  
  
“It has been his plan all along to keep secret the standard that Halbarad holds for him. I think he is not yet decided when to fly it, for it will be a message to both the Enemy and our allies that cannot be easily taken back, can it?”  
  
“No, it can’t,” Rawlind answers thoughtfully.  
  
Daervunn watches her a moment, then declares, “Thank you for finding the maps, my friend, and for helping with all these matters. We will have many ships ready to sail, sooner and safer than I expected!”  
  
“It was no problem,” Rawlind mutters tiredly and turns to go find Lothrandir.  
  
“You should rest, Rawlind,” Daervunn tells her, brow furrowed in concern, and instead of arguing as he’d probably expected her to, a small smile graces her face.  
  
“I will, Daer, I promise. I just need to speak with Lothrandir about something.”  
  
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” He gestures north-east-ish, a teasing smile on his face and Rawlind blushes. Instead of responding, she ignores him and sets off in the direction he’d gestured in.  
  
She spots Lothrandir sitting on a rock on the edge of the camp, staring off at the horizon, his eyes slightly glassy with distraction. “Lothrandir.” She calls as she nears him, not wanting to startle him too badly. He does jump, but smiles faintly when he sees her. “The supplies have been carried,” She tells him and his smiles grows a little before falling off his face entirely.  
  
“Thank you for doing my part, Rawlind. Asking for help does not come naturally for me, and I beg you forgive me for it.”  
  
“There is nothing to forgive, Lothrandir,” Rawlind chides softly and he huffs in irritation.  
  
“Even still…” He doesn’t finish and instead draws off for a minute or two. “I hope to regain my strength before long,” He says finally, “This weakness and fatigue pains me more than any of the injuries I sustained in Saruman’s care!”  
  
Rawlind sighs, unsure of what to say in response. She sits down next to Lothrandir hesitantly and her legs tremble slightly in relief. She doesn’t notice him watching her and he doesn’t say anything for several long minutes. “When was the last time you rested, Raw?” He eventually asks, half-accusingly.  
  
“I am resting!” She protests, and Lothrandir raises an eyebrow.  
  
“That is not what I meant, Rawlind, and you know it.”  
  
Rawlind sighs, “I’ve been busy; I will rest. I promise.” Lothrandir’s expression is skeptical and he clearly doesn’t entirely believe her, but he doesn’t say anything and they sit there in silence for a long while.  
  
Eventually, Rawlind begins to feel herself drifting off, but instead of getting up, she leans against Lothrandir and closes her eyes. After a moment, she feels him put an arm around her shoulders and then she sinks into slumber.

* * *

When Rawlind next opens her eyes, she is lying in her bedroll and Lothrandir is nowhere to be seen. She feels less tired, but exhaustion still sits deep in her bones. “Curse this thrice-damned war!” She says, and then sees Epitaph pokes her head up to look over at her mistress before going back to sleep. Both Ebony and Daefaroth are nowhere to be found, but over the past few days that has become commonplace and Rawlind isn’t concerned. She sits up and blinks the sleep from her eyes. Or attempts to.  
  
Her boots stand a short distance from her bedroll and she grabs them and pulls them on. She picks her gloves up off of her pack and pulls them on, straps her bracer over them, then slides Carca into its sheath on her right bracer. The half-dozen daggers that normally rest on her chest and stomach are lying on a cloth next to her pack and she replaces each one carefully. Rawlind then stands and picks her sword off of the ground and buckles it to her belt, then slings her staff over her shoulder. Her hood, however, she leaves down, and she then walks a few paces before looking around for Aragorn.  
  
She spots him speaking with Angbor a short distance away and heads over. “Rawlind!” Aragorn says in greeting when he sees her and pull the lore-master into a tight, one-armed embrace. When he pulls back, he states almost cheerfully, “I asked that you help prepare the ships with haste, but I did not expect such speed even from you!”  
  
Rawlind smiles and says, “Well, I aim to please and to surprise.” She rubs her eyes as she says this, then apologizes, “It would seem that I am not entirely awake yet.” She chuckles and Aragorn smiles. Rawlind remembers what an uncommon sight his smile had become over the past few months and hums to herself, pleased.  
  
“I thank you for your efforts and know that we are put in the best position we could be as a result.” His face once more grows seriously and Rawlind mentally sighs. She is so sick of the shadow that now looms over everything. “I have given some thought to this next request, my friend, and I hope you agree with me on this. I do not ask you to accompany me on the ships.” At that sentence, Rawlind feels disappointment fill her, but she says nothing. Her loyalty to Aragorn is unquestioned; unfailing; and if Aragorn wishes her to go another route to Minas Tirith, she will go by whatever route he wishes.  
  
“Instead, I ask you to travel by land through Upper Lebennin and Lossarnch. We must learn the state of the war to the east.” Aragorn says, and Rawlind nods once. “The vale of Tumladen and the town of Imloth Melui had strong walls of old, and were used as places of safety for the peoples in times of war. The people there will tell you much of what has transpired elsewhere in Gondor.”  
  
Aragorn gestures to Angbor, who has taken a few steps back to give the two friends a little privacy. “Angbor will go that way as well, with his men, and will be a boon companion as you go.” Sensing a dismissal, both Angbor and Rawlind turn to finish last minute preparations before leaving, but Aragorn stops Rawlind in order to say one last thing to her. “I have another purpose for you, my trusted friend. I want you to find Gandalf or true-hearted Faramir in Minas Tirith and tell them about our victory here. Tell no others! In Faramir I place the trust I would not give to his father. There is too much I do not know about the situation in the White City.”  
  
Rawlind and Aragorn stand shoulder to shoulder for several moments before Aragorn smiles in farewell. Rawlind bows ever so slightly, and turns to follow Angbor. She does not see it, but Aragorn’s eyes are thoughtful as he watches her go.  
  
Rawlind catches up to Angbor by the horses, and Lothrandir is standing by Daefaroth and Ebony with Epitaph wrapped around his ankles. He looks up when he hears someone approach and smiles when he sees her. Her bedroll is rolled, folded, and strapped to Dae and he lifts Epitaph onto the mare’s back. “Tare care, Rawlind,” He says and she might be imaging it, but Rawlind hears worry…and slight embarrassment in his voice.  
  
She pulls him into one last hug and whispers, “You too, Loth.” Then she pulls back and takes Daefaroth’s reins from the Ranger.  
  
Angbor, watching their exchange, motions Rawlind to follow him and as she does, with Ebony trailing behind, he says “I have heard a great deal about you, Rawlind, and I welcome you as a traveling companion into the lands to the east. If you are half as brave and skilled as Aragorn tells me, we shall have no trouble at all!  
  
Rawlind blinks at this high praise, then smiles brightly and swings up into the saddle. Over the past few months, she has grown increasingly comfortable on the back of the war-steed and now feels somewhat bereft when she is on the ground. She takes one last look over her shoulder at the Grey Host, then turns back to Angbor. “I will do my best not to disappoint.” She says and despite all that has gone right, she has to force herself not to think of all the things that could still go horribly wrong. “There are darker days yet to come,” She thinks and tries not to shudder.


End file.
